The Woman
by Decoded3
Summary: A woman was standing before his grave, tears flowing freely down her porcelain cheeks, pink with cold, yet somehow, even in such a state, she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Sally had ever seen. What was she doing here?


**HOLY POOP. Stop the presses, she finally posted a story. o_o**

**So, I've always been Sherlockian and suddenly I realize there's a TV series and any semblance of my social life is officially shot to hell. WOOT!**

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Sally Donovan had vowed to remain as far as strictly possible from the grave of Sherlock Holmes. He'd been an infuriating, arrogant bastard. She couldn't stand to be around him and snide remarks about her relationship with a coworker. Hell, his condescension in general managed to piss everyone off. So why should she feel obliged to visit his grave? Why the hell did she miss the freak so much? And why did she still expect to hear Lestrade announce that he'd be arriving shortly to assist them in solving yet another 'unsolvable' case and drive them all loony and up the wall in the process? It had taken her all of two days to break that vow.

It was supposed to rain, Sally thought that fitting, but the skies were crisp and clear. Clutching the rather unnecessary umbrella in a vice-like grip, she worked her way slowly through the chilly graveyard.

God, she wanted to be angry with him as she'd always been for pulling such a stunt. Throwing himself off a bloody building for Christ's sake! But she couldn't bring herself to be angry. The incident was partly her doing anyhow. She knew it was irrational, but really, she may as well have pushed him herself. She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly and bit her quivering lip as the tides of guild washed over her once again. The chilly, late-autumn air offered no reprieve.

Fraud? She'd _seen_ him. She'd watched him deduce and _still_ … What did it matter now?

When she emerged from the cover of the trees, limbs raw and rigid with chill and nerves, Sally spotted it. The obsidian stone- it was so simple and so unbearably _him._ She stopped.

A woman was standing before his grave, tears flowing freely down her porcelain cheeks, pink with cold, yet somehow, even in such a state, she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman Sally had ever seen. Wonderful pools of sharp, cunning cerulean swimming with tears and red from crying- the perfect crimson lips and the long, straight nose all belonging to a pale face constructed of sharp angles and soft edges, framed by windswept dark hair. Her sharp shoulders were hunched against the cold, but the woman remained, still as a statue before Sherlock's grave.

Steeling herself Sally forced her legs to cooperate; she reached the grave and stopped almost directly beside the taller woman who seemed completely aware of her presence although she'd made no indication of it. Sally stood, observing the lifeless black stone before them as the silence weighed heavily in the air. Only the wind blowing through the rustling branches and the occasional, nearly imperceptible rustle of clothing against skin could be heard as the remarkable mystery woman at her side shivered. The woman seemed not to care that someone else had arrived, but Sally felt as though she were intruding and found she couldn't bear the silence any longer.

Coughing lightly, Sally offered light conversation. "Erm….How-How did you know him? Sherlock." _Why would you need to clarify who you're talking about?_ A voice in the very back of her mind whispered mockingly. _It's not like she's standing here sobbing over a stranger._

Sally was always so in control. How did she felt so… inadequate in this woman's presence? Almost as though this being consumed any and all confidence and self assurance around her to use as her own. It was unsettling really.

The shivering ceased and the flood of tears came to an abrupt halt as the woman turned her head, even more impressive now than Sally had dared imagine. Impossible intelligence, like impregnable steel lingered behind the orbs of blue, but they were suddenly colder, harsh even.

"I knew him _very_ well." Her voice was as smooth as silk, low, warm and buttery, but her tone suggested Sally's questioning was not appreciated. However, she couldn't keep the questions bouncing around in her mind from spilling out of her mouth. Who _was_ this woman? A grateful client? An old friend, perhaps? But then-

"I didn't see you at his funeral." The words escaped her mouth before she could stop them and Sally inwardly cringed at the simple look she received in reply. Her previous meekness returned immediately. For a moment she remained silent before quietly allowing something she would never have if her were alive.

"He was bloody brilliant."

The flinty azure eyes narrowed at the compliment, clearly analyzing something, searching Sally's expression for any trace of fallacy. Finally satisfied, the woman blinked, her marvelous eyelashes hovered deviously over her eyes. One eyebrow was arched almost seductively above one eye in…amusement? In the next moment the woman released a huff of air that could have been mistaken for a short breath of laughter. A small cloud of steam left her lips, dissipating immediately before she spoke, a low, enchanting rumble of amusement coloring her tones.

"Yes….Yes, he was." Sally was bemused by the wistful tone. It sounded almost like the woman was referring to some sort of inside joke. A small smile tugged on her lips as she shook her head slightly, returning her piercing gaze to the slab of cold marble resting in the dirt. "Until he would let his heart get the better of him."

Sally's head whipped around to look at the expression of wry, pained amusement on those flawless features. In all of her years at Scotland Yard never had she played with the thought of Sherlock harboring feelings of any sort- Did Sherlock even _have_ a-

"Yes, he _did have one_." The woman remarked as though any other notion was utterly ridiculous. She sounded repulsed by the ignorance of the dark skinned woman beside her. Sally flinched, how had she-?

"Someone else's at any rate, but a heart nonetheless."

This time the words were spoken softly, delicately. The sadness raging in those eyes suddenly increased in measure until it was unbearable for Sally to watch. She turned away, confusion clouding her thoughts as she wondered at what the woman's words could mean. The first flurries of snow fluttered in the air around her. The wind began to seep through Sally's jacket. When she finally looked over again, the woman was gone.

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